SAN DIEGO — The soil of the graveyard tenders new meaning to the living, especially when men stand over the bones of their fathers.
In Israel recently, I found a new and deeper affinity with my cousin, Amir. Effusive, kind-hearted, and carrying the mantle of young patriarch, Amir strongly resembles his late father and seeks to emulate him.
Uncle Moshe, a kind of Israeli Tevye, born in the land when the British were still there, a veteran of many wars, was one of the country’s pioneer bus drivers, a supreme tour guide, and a founding settler of the seaport town of Ashdod. He survived combat, migraine headaches, the loss of one of his sons to congenital heart disease, and a lifelong two-packs-a-day cigarette habit. Moshe did not have much patience for scripture, but he could take you directly to the graves of the Maccabees or to where David slew Goliath—and then recite the full narratives involved.
He never hated the Arabs and in many ways admired their desert ways, their rugged tribal customs, and certainly their sizzling spicy foods and sauces tempered by their hot pita breads. My uncle—Amir’s father—carried something of the Bedouin spirit as he prepared delicious barbecues on open-air grills, puffing on his strong unfiltered cigarettes, then breaking out in song as he sipped on steaming, bitter Turkish coffee. Moshe was the real thing and Amir strives to replicate him a generation later, now replete with two cell phones, a Facebook profile, and an unyielding sentimentality for family.
My father, Jeff, married Moshe’s sister, Ruth, when the state of Israel was very young and before oil sheiks, terrorists, and the threat of nukes took away the gilded nation’s innocence and its reputation as a true haven for survivors and wanderers and romantics who saw Eden in the dry land’s eucalyptus trees. My father and my uncle were wartime comrades bonded in that most incomprehensible business of soldiering and killing. When my father then married Moshe’s sister, our family formed a circle drawn by the young warriors who became our elders.
Suddenly, it was a long time ago. My Dad died young, Moshe survived into his 80’s; their widows now remember and gossip and gather us and our children in a cyber-world devoid of simplicity and filled with threats. When I’m in Israel, as I was last week, I skip past the ultramodern trains and the fashion centers of couture and designer wines and try to breathe in the lingering fragrances of the quiet yet knowing orange groves. The earth has its own clock, even as it has gathered in our fathers.
Last week, Amir and I stood and prayed and chatted and reflected over the graves of our fathers. They lie next to each other, with barren plots parallel—waiting for our mothers. We never thought, when we frolicked in the sea as kids, or licked our plates of the hummus and tomatoes, and played silly games in the back seats of the car as our dads drove us about…we never thought we’d be standing over their graves. The orange groves sigh and the onion fields bite the air and the sun sets and we walk back to our vehicles, looking for our children.
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Rabbi Kamin is a freelance writer based in San Diego. He may be contacted at ben.kamin@sdjewishworld.com